


First Impressions

by ETraytin



Category: The West Wing
Genre: First Bartlet for America Campaign, Gen, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ETraytin/pseuds/ETraytin
Summary: Sam arrives at the Bartlet For America headquarters in Manchester, New Hampshire. He's the last senior staff member on board, and is determined to make a good impression.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Today's fic comes from a prompt by Anonymous, who asked for "something about toby (aka human oscar the grouch) and sam (aka human sunshine) meeting for the first time?" This one took awhile, it got buried under a bunch of other stuff while I was cogitating, but here it is! Also with bonus other-senior-staff encounters! Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> (Also, I just noticed last night that it has been exactly eleven weeks since I started writing West Wing fanfiction. In that time, counting today’s piece, I have written 137,000 words. Fourteen more days till the election!)

It had taken Sam almost two hours that morning to decide what to wear on his first day. He knew a suit wasn't appropriate; after all this was hardly his first campaign. His first presidential campaign, granted, and first for a candidate who wasn't already starting out the incumbent and just looking to hold their seat, granted, but it still counted as campaign experience. The sane and logical part of his mind told him that nobody was likely to care what the new speechwriter-in-residence was wearing so long as he didn't show up buck naked or in a giant chicken suit. That same part of his mind reminded him that Josh would never let him hear the end of it if he were late on the first day because he couldn't dress himself. It was surprisingly difficult to hear that voice over the clamoring of the “first day of seventh grade” part of his brain that reminded him that nobody was going to like him if he wasn't cool enough. Finally, after far too much deliberation, he settled on a simple gray polo shirt and nicely fitted black slacks, with a tie rolled up in his briefcase just in case. He then covered it all up with a huge black overcoat, because even after living in New York, New Hampshire in the winter was very cold for a California boy. 

Josh had already joined the campaign weeks ago, quick both from an excess of zeal and from having almost no material possessions that couldn't be replaced by access to a video store. There'd been a lot more for Sam to deal with. Despite his precipitous departure he'd needed to wind up or pass along his cases; that was his duty to his clients. He'd had to have several very painful talks with Lisa, talks that currently had them in limbo, but had resulted in him packing up most of his things and putting them into storage. He'd needed to find an apartment near campaign headquarters, because he wasn't the sort of person who could live in a hotel room for six months or a year, and anyway Josh would probably wind up couch-surfing there eventually because he was a brilliant political mind who secretly believed he was still 22 years old. As a result of those delays, Sam was going to be the last hired staffer on board until they started bringing in enough money for paid assistants and junior staff. He told himself he didn't feel at all strange about that. 

The Bartlet For America campaign operated out of a storefront in Manchester that Sam accidentally drove past on his first trip through the downtown. It was unprepossessing but homey, he decided as he found a parking space and made his way back in the right direction. It bespoke an authenticity that a slicker building with larger signage might not have. It also bespoke a certain lack-of-money aesthetic, but that just meant that they needed to get more people inspired into pledging towards the campaign. That was his job. As soon as Sam walked in, he was accosted by a red-haired woman in an incredibly unlikely gingham dress over red tights who took one look at him and stopped in her tracks. He wondered if her eyes were always that wide, or if he'd somehow managed to scare the hell out of her without even trying. “Wow,” she said after a beat. “Who are you?” 

That part he could deal with. Sam gave her his friendliest smile and extended a hand. “I'm Sam Seaborn, I'm coming on as a speechwriter.” 

She returned the handshake, quite enthusiastically, actually. “I'm Margaret Hooper,” she told him. “I'm Leo McGarry's assistant, but right now I'm campaign coordinator as well. If you're Sam Seaborn, then I need to take you back to meet Toby.” That idea seemed to cause her some concern, though he was beginning to think she just had a naturally startled face. She leaned in closer. “Don't let him intimidate you. He just hates everybody, so you can't take it personally. He's Communications Lead, though, so you'll be working with him pretty much all the time.” 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Sam promised, trying to hide a grimace. He'd worked with people like that before, and it was usually a very tiresome experience. On a small team like this, that attitude probably meant that either Toby was very good, or somehow related to somebody important. Either way, Sam had better try and get along. 

A tall, curly-haired woman in a flowing blue blouse and brown slacks swept through the front office, carrying a stack of paper easily six inches high. “Margaret, I need you to find somebody who can sort these wire stories out for me, we're going to need to be ready to respond to press questions and I don't even have time to read headlines right now.” She paused when she realized Margaret was speaking to someone, and turned to give Sam her full attention, along with an up-and-down evaluation. He returned the favor and raised his eyebrows. “Sparky,” she acknowledged with a slow grin. 

“Claudia,” he replied with a smile. “You're looking well. I thought you were in California now.” 

“CJ now,” she corrected him. “And I was, but Toby convinced me to join the team. Press Spokesperson. I forgot how cold it is, or I'd have made them pay me some actual money. I thought you got out of politics entirely.” 

“I did,” Sam admitted with a smile, “but Josh pulled me back in with the promise of absolutely no sleep or money for the next six months so I could write speeches. Who could resist?” 

“You ever think maybe we have the wrong sorts of friends?” she asked. 

“Constantly. Although I think your friend is about to become my boss, if it's the same Toby.” 

CJ laughed. Sam had always loved Claudia- CJ's laugh, it was even more distinctive than her height. “That should be entertaining.” She leaned in closer. “Just remember, deep down, Toby is exactly like you.” Behind him, Sam could hear Margaret making a choked noise that sounded like a scoff. CJ repaid her by dumping the pile of papers in her arms before sailing off again. “See you at staff meeting,” she called back to Sam. “Good luck!” 

Margaret was now juggling the papers and looked mildly put out about it, but she still gestured to Sam with a nod of her head and started walking. “This way.” While the front of the office had been open and full of desks, the back was a warren of cubicles laid out with only minimal concern for aesthetics or sanity. He passed an office with Josh's name on it, but couldn't tell if there was a desk under the enormous pile of books and papers covering anything that might have been a surface. Margaret didn't so much as glance in that direction, and Sam figured it was probably deliberate. Leo McGarry had a much neater office, also empty, and then there was one large room way in the back, divided in thirds by cubicle walls. The one nearest the door was obviously CJ's, judging by the long crimson coat on the hook and the pictures of a tall, tall family. The second cubicle was empty and waiting. From the cubicle on the end, screened off by its fabric wall, came a strange ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk, like the beating of a telltale heart. 

“Oh god, he's got the ball again,” Margaret muttered. “Maybe we should just come back later. Here's your desk, anyway.” 

She began to usher Sam away, but Sam raised a hand to stop her. “Don't worry about it, I'll be okay,” he promised in the same undertone. “Could you see if you could scare me up a half-dozen legal pads and a pack of pens? Thanks.” He watched as she nodded and scurried away, then hung up his coat and surveyed his new domain. It really wasn't much to look at, and a considerable step down from his windowed office at Gage Whitney. If he'd been looking for a more comfortable job, he'd certainly have been disappointed. But even so early in the primaries, even with most of the staff out of the office, Sam could feel the electricity pulsing in the air. This was not a job he'd have to force himself to do because ethically lawyers were supposed to represent their clients. This was something he could believe in, and god, did he need something to believe in right now. 

The right-hand wall of his cubicle vibrated again with another muffled ker-thunk. That seemed like as good a signal as any. Straightening his tie, he walked around the side of the cubicle to meet his new neighbor. The first visual effect was about as prepossessing as the campaign's storefront. Toby looked like he had slept in his clothes, a wrinkled white dress shirt and suit pants, with a jacket that looked to be a decade old hung sloppily on the hook. He was nearly bald and his beard needed trimming, and when he looked up at Sam, his eyes were bloodshot and slightly squinted. Sam didn't let any of that bother him. “Hi,” he said in his best professional “I am your lawyer” voice, “I'm Sam Seaborn. I'm the new speechwriter.” 

Toby looked tremendously unimpressed, though he did take Sam's outstretched hand for a very halfhearted shake. “Toby Ziegler,” he said, in a voice that dripped New York. “I'm already the speechwriter.” 

Sam frowned a little bit, caught on the back foot. “Margaret said you were communications lead.” 

“Speaking in front of groups is, in fact, a form of communication,” Toby pointed out. “Possibly the most effective form of communication we have right now until CJ manages to scare us up a few reporters. Hence the importance of someone who knows what they're doing writing the speeches, because god knows if we let the governor do it, all the electorate is going to hear is half-hour polemics on the history of New Hampshire!” 

“Sounds like you've got a lot of work on your hands, then,” Sam offered, not about to let the other man's poor attitude throw him. “Having a dedicated speechwriter will take some of the work off your hands and let you focus on the big picture.” 

Toby frowned at him again, but Sam thought it looked a bit more thoughtful and less irritated. Not much less irritated, but some. He harumphed. “I need ten minutes for the Nashua Jaycees on the importance of civic engagement and why the Governor's executive history makes him more suited to be President than Hoynes. Make it something that can be adapted to at least five other civic groups this month, and get me a five hundred word outline in four hours.” He watched Sam expectantly. 

“Civic engagement and executive experience for the Jaycees, got it,” Sam replied cheerfully. Inwardly he was sweating just a little, realizing that this was an audition. Even if Toby didn't like him, Sam figured Josh would be able to keep him in the job, but it would be a lot more difficult and unpleasant. So he'd just have to do a good job on this. Sitting down in his cubicle, he rolled up his sleeves, picked up one of the pads and pens Margaret had brought in, and got to work. After the first couple of minutes, he didn't even notice the ball anymore. 

An hour or so after Sam began working, Toby got up and walked out of the office without saying anything. CJ was in and out a few times, usually on her cell phone, once with an armload of newspapers she dumped on her desk. She seemed to notice that he was busy and left him alone. Not so with Josh, who eventually wandered in with a broad grin on his face. “So, this is the male model that Margaret's been raving about all morning?” he asked, hooking an arm over the top of Sam's cubicle. “Apparently you made quite an impression.” 

Sam ignored him long enough to finish his thought, then looked up at Josh with an indolent smile. “I can't help being who I am, Josh,” he explained. “When all they've had to look at for weeks is you, it's hard to blame them.” 

Josh sputtered over that for a minute, like Sam had known he would. Josh was actually no slouch in the looks department either, but he'd been subscribing to the Toby Ziegler school of sartorial design and looked like he'd dressed in the dark without the assistance of an iron. His brown curls looked to be trying to escape from his head in every possible direction. “Just wait,” Josh finally managed, “give yourself a couple weeks on the trail and see how you're feeling then. Some other gomer will come along in an expensive suit and then it'll be all over!” 

“When's the last time you slept?” Sam asked skeptically. 

“I dunno, awhile ago.” Josh's hand wave dismissed this question as beyond stupid. 

“How about ate?” This time Josh just looked at him blankly. “You need a babysitter, buddy. Isn't Mandy keeping you in line these days?” 

“Hey, Mandy's not my boss!” Josh insisted. “Anyway, when I'm not sleeping it's usually her fault... for one reason or another.” Sam thought Josh looked like he wasn't sure whether to look smug or annoyed about that. He'd already heard about some of their epic fights. “Anyway, Mandy's in DC this week to schmooze some magazines. Hey, what are you writing?” 

Sam held up the legal pad a few inches. “Auditioning for Toby. Ten minutes for the Nashua Jaycees.” 

“Ah. Good idea, we don't really want him going off the cuff there,” Josh decided. “You want to get a beer later?” 

“Sure, after I finish this up.” Josh wandered away again, and Sam turned back to his work. Around him phones rang and people talked, Margaret went past at least once in a dead run, trying to do the work of three or four people, and CJ dropped a muffin on his desk at lunchtime, which he ate without really thinking about it. It occurred to him that he had not actually met the governor yet and he really ought to do that sometime soon, as well as speak to Leo McGarry, who was officially his boss. He knew Leo through Josh already, but had always found the Labor Secretary a little bit intimidating. Working with him would be interesting. 

Three and a half hours after his first chat with Toby, Sam swung around the partition once more, this time with three sheets of neatly outlined paper. Toby took them with another harumph, giving Sam that same evaluating look as before. Sam just nodded and went back to his cubicle, never able to watch someone read his writing. It was too nervewracking. After a couple of minutes, the ball whacked against the side of his cubicle again, and Sam took that as an invitation to rejoin Toby. 

Toby's face was expressionless, but Sam fancied he spotted a look of interest in those dark eyes. “It'll do,” Toby informed him. “Get me the speech by tomorrow night and we'll tweak it, then we'll work on the stump speech.” Sam immediately recognized that for the concession that it was. Working on the stump speech was the heart of the campaign speechwriter's job, honing it until it was perfect in every word, then editing it with great precision for every new audience. To have even a piece of it was very important. 

“I can do that,” Sam assured him. “Thanks, Toby.” Toby muttered something and handed the pad back before turning back to his work. Sam noticed a wedding ring on his finger and wondered how anybody put up with someone so gloomy and dour. Maybe there was more to Toby than met the eye. Either way, Sam had a speech to write, and he was glad.


End file.
